We're Painting The Roses Red
by anyadoll
Summary: Red John may be dead and gone...but someone from their Past comes back to haunt them all...
1. I've Seen The Rage

**A/N: **Mentalist kick! Sheesh! I'd like to give a nice, hearty shout out to wimmer511—best review ever on my latest story, **Unchained**—not that I don't love all my reviewers—but hopefully this makes up for my lack of Cho. I loved it; you can bring on the long reviews all you like! I'm glad I can inspire emotion and keep it real, even for those who may not become emotionally attached to a story—I get attached quickly—it's a personal fault of mine. [clearly, I'm **not** a fan of AU unless the universe is an AU in the first place, i.e. _Fringe_—I've always been this way.] The lyrics are 'The Truth' by Handsome Boy Modeling School, listen too this, seriously, it was featured in _Person of Interest_, 1.O2.

**No plan, just…randomness…that will eventually morph into a plot. This may also be updated a bit more sporadically than my other stories as I'm working more.

**We're Painting The Roses Red**

_If happy times are too few and far between_

_It's a pity dear; we can't erase the things we've seen_

_So disappear, vanish if you wish_

_Just go before you're swallowed up by bitterness_

The fall of Red John was swift in the end.

Lorelei, having been hidden away in FBI witness protection, had spilled her guts after months with no one to speak too, without Jane to have following at her heels, without Lisbon to torment in her own twisted way. Broken by silence. It was ironic.

He'd been easier to find than they anticipated. All his wealth and money could only buy him out of so much. It couldn't help him buy his way out of kidney failure.

It was almost unjust in Jane's eyes to kill a dying man. He'd done nothing but laugh manically at the strange turnabout. It was a lot like milking a cow, leaving the milk, and then taking the cow with you. Silly and circular.

Lisbon made sure that Red John lived out his final days in agony. She had sway, so to speak, of her own. Prison medical equipment was not known for its efficiency, after all.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

At Red John's behest, he required the full constituency of people he had wronged to be in attendance as he died of his natural causes. No one quite knew why. It certainly was not for penance. He spoke not a word.

It was a full house that watched him gasp his last few breaths; so many ruined families, so many affected by one solitary man. The team had come as well, Grace the most possessed by the sight before her. Jane had grasped Lisbon's hand so tightly through the ordeal she thought he'd break it. Her knuckles were sore, her moral conscious wavering in the wake of what she considered karma.

It took Red John four hours to die.

They worried, often, about the roles of his minions. Would they come, flooding out of the proverbial woodwork to seek revenge for their departed leader? No. And Jane and Lisbon both knew it. His flock scattered like frightened sheep.

It was over.

So the inevitable question, the one that worried Teresa Lisbon, was invariably: what came next?

She was not a diehard romantic. She'd lost too much and seen the carnage of what being a diehard romantic did to women and men alike. It was silly of her to believe that maybe Patrick Jane would suddenly turn a new leaf and profess his unrequited love for her.

Silly, yes. But a girl pushing forty could dream.

She'd told him to take some time, after watching him stare into space for two hours; while he was often erratic, he usually mulled over a case file, a word or a phrase, the Elvis stain that remained above his head, even a book that Cho was reading. His gaze today…it was different.

Empty.

He had not said much. His actions spoke volumes. It was his rare display of physical affection that should have tipped her off. As the time in her office before, nearly a year or more ago, he'd clutched her too him, and this time it was hard for him to let her go. He had no reason too, after all, no impending threats upon her head or reasons he'd get her killed.

She was tense for a long moment, before relaxing in his embrace. She was glad she'd drawn the blinds earlier; friend or not, she was not one to make an intentional spectacle of herself. It was bad enough rumors of them were not contingent on what others had seen, but made-up and fabricated at the water cooler.

She felt loss when he pulled back. The warmth gone. He took in her lovely face, as if memorizing every angle, committing every line and dimple while he could, winding one of her dark curls around his finger absently and remembering the smell of cinnamon and a hint of strawberry. He leaned in carefully, placed a lingering kiss just to the corner of her lips.

"You've always been good to me Teresa. I didn't deserve it. And I didn't deserve you," He whispered almost inaudibly.

He said nothing more, leaving her speechless as he bowed out of her office. Teresa didn't know, at the time, he was bowing out of her life.

XOX

A week was what she'd considered he would take.

Two was, possibly, a given after everything.

After a month she was concerned.

After three…she stopped trying.

If his stint in Vegas had taught her anything, it was that he could cut his ties and leave her after all. And once again she felt herself falling away. She was not sad; this time, anger coursed through her at his flight.

Her final message left to him was one of defeat: _I can't forgive you for this, Patrick. Not again. I'm letting you go._

XOX

"Uh-oh," Grace said quietly. "Guys, I think we have a case."

"How do you 'think' we have case?" Cho queried, straight-faced; a copy of Anna Karenina lay open on his lap.

"You know how I flag certain criminals or flight risks that deal with cases? Well we've seen this name before…" she began, typing quickly before turning the laptop to face her colleagues. "Recognize her?"

Rigsby shook his head before casting a second glance at the ever increasingly familiar woman. "No way…"

Cho knit his forehead together. "Is that…?"

"Erica Flynn," Grace said, a bit surprised herself. "The siren seductress, alive, in the U.S. and in the flesh."

"We should call—" Rigsby began, pulling out his cell.

Cho grabbed the phone from his friend, shaking his head. "No. He's gone. He's not a part of this anymore. Besides," Cho chanced a glance at their boss, noting her depressing state that seemed to worsen on the day to day. "The boss has enough on her plate and her mind these days. We'll handle this." His words left no room for argument amongst the little team of three.

XOX

He knocked twice, curt and quick.

The door opened swiftly. The smell of breakfast tea and eggs washed over him. Jane stepped aside, allowing the tough, stoic Asian man into his [new to him] home.

"Cho. What brings you here?" Jane asked casually.

"Nice digs," Cho commented, briefly glancing around the spacious apartment that was far better than his. "We need to talk."

Jane's head bobbed. "Well then, we also need tea," Jane replied with a tight, foreboding smile.

When they were seated at his dinner table, tea in hand and eggs untouched, and Cho staring menacingly at him he knew what would come next.

"I'm not coming back."

"Did I ask you too?" Cho questioned plainly. "Why me, Jane? Why tell me you were here? Why _stay_ here?"

Patrick sipped his tea, sighing heavily. "Because I trust you to say nothing. As for why I stayed…I can't give you an answer Cho," said Jane earnestly.

"You don't have to. I only asked to be polite. I know," the Asian man said with a shrug.

"What is it, exactly, that you think you know?" Jane asked carefully.

"You stayed for her. You're just a coward. Hiding in your expensive ivory tower and pretending the unflappable Patrick Jane doesn't care. You're stupid too, but that's according to Van Pelt."

"Way to lighten the mood," Jane said with the raise of an eyebrow. "You would have done quite well as a fake psychic, you know." It was not a question, but a mere statement of fact.

Cho made a noncommittal noise.

"You didn't come here just to talk about Teresa. What do you want?"

"Erica Flynn is back."

Jane finished the last bit of his tea. "Well, now. Isn't that intriguing…"

XOX

_And the truth is you can't hide from the truth_

_And the truth hurts because the truth is all there is_

_I realized some time ago that I would have to let you go…_


	2. From Yourself You Hide

**A/N: **So this is going to be like a future follow up to _War Of The Roses_, because frankly, seeing Lisbon so crazy-jealous was so much fun [funniest part IMO: Lisbon sliding into the car, with Jane in the middle of both uber jealous women]. I'm making Erica suspect zero to an extent, since she is as amazing of a manipulator as Jane. Also, I'm someone with mixed feelings about Morena Baccarin [Erica Flynn]-loved her in Firefly/Serenity, have detested her in all else she's done that followed [V, Homeland]. Even Mentalist. I think her hair bothers me most. NOT a fan of the pixie cut. But in general, something about her straight up bugs me. Sorry if you are a fan….

**This may also be updated a bit more sporadically than my other stories as I'm working more.

**We're Painting The Roses Red**

_May not be true to see that you would return one day_

_But in your present state you may as well not be here at all_

_You wear a thin disguise, it's from yourself you hide_

_Just take a look at us, we are heading for a fall_

It was just too…quiet. Not the good quiet, the soothing sort that felt comforting and left you with peace of mind. No, this was the kind where things were being kept from you, whispers behind your back and a sense of unease lingering like a dark aura.

Teresa hadn't felt like this since the pre-Red John Death days.

Something was going on. Her team could barely look her in the eye.

So she did what she did best: divide and conquer.

"Van Pelt, can I have word?" she asked authoritatively. The red head had grown tremendously, especially after she'd had to shoot her fiancé to save her boss. Her attitude had finally settled and her rage-like-tendencies had waned as well. But she'd be damned to say the junior agent still didn't look nervous every time she was beckoned.

Grace bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, boss."

She took her seat across from the stern face of her boss. Lisbon moved some papers around with agitation and unrest before turning her questioning gaze on Grace.

"So, Van Pelt, I know I may not seem myself since…I may not be myself but I'd like, very much, to be kept in the loop. We have an active case, do we not?"

Grace floundered for words, but recovered. "Yes," she began with a swallow. "Erica Flynn resurfaced yesterday. Someone placed her getting off a private jet on a secluded tarmac and notified local authorities. They didn't know anything about her case or involvement, but had enough know-how to take a picture with a camera phone."

Teresa had visibly paled, and then flushed with anger at the mention of the seductive, man-manipulating, husband-killing witch from two years prior. First Lorelei, now Erica. Jane's past flings just kept returning like a bad cold. And for Teresa, the hits just kept on coming.

"Does it say why she returned? Where was the flight itinerary originally from?" Teresa asked a bit harshly.

Grace sighed, hesitating with this evidence. "No. And she flew in under a false identity," she held her breath, not wanting to reveal the name.

"Well?" Her boss intoned rather impatiently.

"Angela Jane. She stole his dead wife's identity; boss, down to her social security number. She even changed her appearance," Grace slid the enlarged image over to Lisbon, carefully, watching her every move.

It was a grainy photo, a little blown out and overexposed, but it was definitely _her_. The woman certainly looked different; the short, dark pixie cut was gone, replaced by a light strawberry color that skimmed her chest. Lisbon was sure she was wearing contacts as well—vivid, midnight blue, in fact. But nothing could hide her distinctive face. Distinctive, thought Lisbon, and wicked.

Lisbon rolled her eyes internally; this woman could dye her hair platinum blonde, jump on one leg while singing country karaoke and _still_ have men falling all over her.

If she hadn't trusted Lorelei Martins, then she downright despised this harpy.

The primary difference between the two dark temptresses was that Teresa pitied Lorelei; she'd been used, and in return, used others to survive. She was a leech, but a smart leech. She had to give her credit for that. But Erica? She was the condescending "it" girl that captured the male species with a perfectly executed smile and stole your boyfriend. Hers wasn't survival, it was just evil.

And in the wake of both women, Teresa Lisbon did not compare.

"Boss, may I be frank for a moment?" Van Pelt asked, watching the flickering emotions converge across her bosses face. Teresa looked up, startled. "Just call him. He deserves to know."

"I know, Grace, if a fugitive stole my dead—"

Van Pelt shook her head curtly, cutting Lisbon off at the punch. "That's not what I meant."

With that said, Grace left the office, leaving Teresa Lisbon more than stunned.

She picked up her phone. Hit the familiar speed dial. She would regret this later.

"We need to talk."

XOX

Patrick picked up the call on the first ring. He'd been anticipating her call since Cho came bearing the news.

"We need to talk." She stated in lieu of a greeting, voice neutral, flat, no inflection.

A sharp pang hit his heart at her all-business tone, but he gathered himself quickly. "It would seem so. Where did you want to meet?"

She wanted somewhere public; she didn't think she could be in a room with him, alone. Confined spaces with Patrick Jane were not conducive to her health. Or her heart.

She sighed heavily across the line. "How about Marie's?"

He agreed. It was her favorite bakery/lunch place. She would feel exceedingly comfortable there, he knew. And also free to flee at any moment.

It was his fault, and he knew it. "See you there in thirty," he answered and ended the call.

Red John was dead, and yet he still felt cruelly soldered to the dead man's mind. It was part of the reason he had not returned to the CBI. He spread darkness like a disease, and he'd infected enough good, pure, innocent souls with it. Especially her. Because hers he'd not just tainted, but dragged down to the deepest reaches of hell. His presence would only keep her there. So he set her free. He removed himself from the equation.

She'd returned from it. He had not. Both had lost bits of their souls along the way.

She was too good for him, in the end.

XOX

It was far more than thirty minutes later that Jane sat, waiting in their booth in the far corner, away from prying ears, and wondered for the third time in as many minutes if she'd bailed. While highly unlike his stubborn agent, he would not blame her for sending a minion of her own. If she did, he hoped for the still clueless Rigsby—he was the easiest mark to bring to his side because he genuinely liked Jane. Unless Cho and Grace had managed to corrupt that friendship.

His attention was diverted when the bell signaling a customer jingled. She craned her neck to seek him out, but he was too caught up to wave her over. She was radiant as ever; it seemed she'd gotten more sun lately, or maybe, his tortured mind played darkly, perhaps she'd entertained a lover, because she seemed to glow, her lovely dark hair even longer, curling prettily in the summer heat—he loved it long. But upon closer inspection, as glass bottle green eyes connected with his jarring blue, he saw how truly sad she was. Her image was a farce, created to prove to herself and others she was fine. It had worked on him in that moment, after all. But he knew her, as others did not.

And that, itself, was a problem. They'd both come to cold read each other in seconds. He was not sure when she learned how to do that.

Her countenance set itself into impartial, unbiased, blankness in the span of a blink. Ouch. He realized her image may have "lightened," but her wardrobe had not. While lately she'd taken to color, she'd reverted back to the blacks and grays, as if she was in mourning. Even now in the heavy humid fog of summer in California, she wore a loose fitting black blouse and the darkest-to-black wash jeans, that she caught some curious glances from the café patrons, wearing their pristine whites and Easter egg colors.

Maybe, he thought idly, she was in mourning. She'd lost two people the day Red John died; but could one mourn the living?

He focused when the chair was pulled with a metallic shriek out from under the table.

Jane cast her a small, rueful smile. "You look well, Teresa."

Her eyes remained passive. Jane nodded to Marie, who brought over a bagel and tea for him and a large coffee and bear claw for Lisbon. He figured she might as well be fed if they were going to fight.

Lisbon took a gulp of the beverage. "Erica Flynn is—"

"—back. I know."

She cocked an eyebrow, but assumed this. "Figured," she mocked with a snort. "Cho?"

He nodded. "He's kept me apprised of the going's on in the CBI. He told me yesterday."

"So you're having them do your bidding, from afar, and _still_ leaving me out. That's wonderful. It's like I have three kids that favor their father no matter how many times he lies and cheats and steals their candy from them," she huffed. She was flushed and angry. "You left Jane_, you_ left. _Again_. You have no right and no place to beg for information. Red John is dead. His followers have vanished. You got your wish. Your mission is done."

"Then why are you here, Lisbon?"

She glanced away, laughing lightly, but not with humor. "Because Erica Flynn arrived in California as Angela Jane." Lisbon pulled the photo out of the small messenger bag she'd brought, pushed it into his hands. Sure enough, the hair and eyes belonged to his wife. The face clearly did not; neither did the slight olive complexion. He clenched his jaw. "I thought you had the right to know."

"Has she made contact yet?" he asked, carefully, still staring at the picture.

"No. Nothing," Lisbon replied quietly, breaking off a small bite of the bear claw that she was no longer hungry for.

"She will. She'll ask for me. She may have heard about Red John, but she doesn't know I'm no longer a consultant." He looked to Lisbon at last. "Don't tell her. You don't want to tip your hand. She'll disappear again if she knows I'm gone."

"I know. I've solved cases without you before," she bit sharply. She'd never wanted to hurt him before, not emotionally. Now she wanted her words to sting.

His tea had gone cold in its cup, and the bagel left to harden. She had not made a dent in hers either. There was so much he wanted to tell her. Nothing but his own selfish fear was stopping him.

"I didn't leave because of you Teresa. Or Red John, for that matter. I just…need time."

His words only hurt her more. She wanted to shake him, or scream or hit him. She glared at him with watery pools of liquid green. "Then why, Jane? Why won't you even call me, acknowledge that I'm your friend! I've done nothing to deserve this! You already put me through this before, and look how well that turned out. God, Jane, I can't take it anymore. He is gone, I'm not in danger, and there is no bounty on my head. What are you so afraid of?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it?

"I know you're my friend Lisbon. I know I keep hurting you, and I'm sorry, I can't help it," he wearily picked at the bagel. She did not hear his quietly spoken "I left for you," as she pushed back, ready to flee as he had predicted.

"Get over yourself." She snapped, shaking her head angrily, hair tossing about her face. "You're such an idiot, Patrick Jane."

She stood, gathered her bag and coffee and left without another word or so much as a glance cast over her shoulder.

"I know." He said to nothing but empty space.

Their friendship was built on lies and deceit from the moment he exited the elevator on day one. They wore masks and false identities and danced around fire and death all day. It did not bode well for a healthy relationship. You could love something so ardently that you suffocated it in the end.

XOX

She did not return to work. Her mind was racing at light speed; her heart was racing faster. How could he continue to do this to her? She did not deserve to be treated this way, she knew, considering all they'd been through in the last decade. But like an abused girlfriend, she kept going back, asking for more because she felt like she deserved every blow. When had she become so masochistic?

Lisbon avoided her home as well. She couldn't even go to church—even that reeked of Jane. So she drove until she hit the coast. Not exactly a big feat in California, but not something she did often.

She locked the car, having removed the sticky black blouse, revealing a silk, lace edged lavender camisole. An impulse buy—because it brought out her green eyes nicely—and she'd thought of Jane when she purchased it initially.

She had not wanted nor searched for the compliment, so she'd pulled on the black shirt over it to hide. She'd become quite good at it—hiding.

She tossed her shoes into the car with the blouse, traversing the beach, lost in her own mind, well into the evening as the bright yellow sun faded to hot pink streaks which turned into dark, night blue undertones with little shots of stars peeking through.

XOX

He'd never admit to following her. But he'd been compelled to as she practically ran away from him. Jane remained a safe distance behind, he thought; or she was that distracted.

He thought she would turn into the church where he'd sprung from the pew like a restless child, claiming he was God. She'd slowed when it appeared in her line of sight, but quickly sped past. Jane knew then that she didn't stop because it was somewhere she'd been…with him. Of course, they'd been to the beach before as well, but always for a case, not for personal outings.

Jane parked his blue monstrosity of a death trap he called a car a solid block from where she was. It was curiosity that got the best of him.

As she divested herself of the clinging black top in favor of the stunning lavender silk beneath, he felt his breath catch. She really was hiding herself away from him, bit by little bit.

This was, what most aptly called, a crossroads. _Do I stay or do I go?_

He chose stay, and go. He moved to trek down the beach after her. He had much to atone for.

He did not get far.

"Long time, Patrick," came the smoky, smooth voice of Erica Flynn.

The woman masquerading in his dead wife's skin.

"Looks like you don't have to 'find me' after all. I came straight to you, darling."

His eyes narrowed darkly. "What are you playing at Erica?"

She tilted her head, a short laugh bubbling.

"Don't you mean Angela?"

XOX

_You can't hide from the truth_

_Because the truth is all there is..._


	3. A Moment Of Madness

**A/N: **the lyrics following throughout are still "The Truth" by Handsome Boy Modeling School. Enjoy ch. 3!

**We're Painting The Roses Red: **

_Go..._

_Go to the mountain if you must_

_Go to the burning bush_

_Happy would ease your troubled mind_

_How do the fade just stay behind?_

"You're as far from Angela as the devil is from God, so don't you _dare _say her name," Patrick intoned, a cruel distance in his voice.

She smirked. "Well that's a little harsh. I came to make peace, Patrick."

He laughed, shaking his head in the ocean breeze that took over the night. "What would you know of peace, Erica? You're a fugitive without a soul. You killed your husband, you ruined lives, you tried to manipulate me into certainly being your next…"

"What are you _really_ upset about Patrick? The fact that I kissed you and you liked it, that I escaped your custody, or was it that you trusted me, and I violated that trust?" Erica questioned, carefully studying his body language. She gave a nod and a small half smile. "I figured. The great Patrick Jane rarely trusts, especially with his whole heart."

Erica followed his lingering gaze out towards the beach, where a woman stood, jeans soaked through, up to her knees in the ocean. She sighed heavily. "Except with her. What is it about her that you find so compelling? She's so very…ordinary. I always thought you'd be one to embrace adventure."

Jane turned to face the woman next to him. "It's nothing to do with adventure, Erica. I had that the first time around after all. It did not end well as I'm sure you know—given you do your homework on your marks."

"I heard about the death of your infamous killer. I thought it was time I paid you a visit, give you my deepest regard. It's a pity he passed of natural causes though," she falsely lamented. "And I did, so, miss our lovely conversations. I haven't had a decent one in quite a long time."

Jane could not get a read on her, but he could see the flashing red lights going off in loud warning bells around her. "Why are you here, Erica?" he demanded.

The dark smirk returned to her deep crimson lips. It was a color his wife had never dreamed of wearing. He recognized the sly, cunning gleam that crossed her once—to him—lovely face. Erica made no move to answer. "It was wonderful to see you again Patrick Jane. I'll be seeing you, sooner than you think."

The grim cast of her tone echoed in his mind as she turned gracefully away. Erica was an intriguing enigma of a sort—her money was not her power—not even her beauty was. It was something all together different, an endless confidence. One he was all too familiar with. And her return brought nothing but fear with it.

When he looked back to the ocean, Teresa had gone.

XOX

Her trip had not soothed her worried mind. If anything, it only amplified her state. As a woman, she relied, heavily, on instinct. The same was true for the cop within. She knew she was watched, on her long excursion at the beach. It was a heavy feeling that lingered long after.

She knew it was Jane that had followed her initially. She was far more observant that she was given credit for, and his own curiosity was his downfall. But the feeling of being followed had not shaken off as she cleared her home, gun in hand, flicking on lights as she studied the rooms for anything out of place.

Nothing was missing or disrupted. But it did not discredit her intuition. If one thing was certain, she thought with a small peace of mind, it could not be Red John.

Of course, being hunted and taunted by a crazed serial killer had done one thing to her: she'd become hyper vigilant, and paranoid to an extent. Lisbon grabbed a go bag she'd packed in case of a scenario such as this, shutting off the lights as she left her home.

She would not sleep tonight.

XOX

The knock on his door drew him out of his concentration. The moment he'd walked into his townhouse, he'd pulled the case files on Erica Flynn that he'd copied for his own personal study. They were laid out across the hardwood floor of the still barren living room. He was still having a hard time furnishing the place, given how long he'd gone without more than a mattress or a hard hotel bed. Furniture seemed nonessential to him now.

He figured it was Cho, come to call and chastise him once more. Or maybe this time it would be Grace. Or maybe it was Mrs. Mather's, the elderly woman down the hall who continued to think that his apartment was hers. Either way, he was displeased with the intrusion.

He opened the door, ready to discourage his caller.

The slightly irritated visage he'd conjured vanished in a moment. "Lisbon?"

She held her hands up, halting his sure slew of questions. "I think I was followed home. I think someone was in my house. Nothing was out of place, and I'm still a bit paranoid, even though I know he's dead, but I just…couldn't stay there."

He noticed her duffel bag then, the shifting eyes, the slight shake in her hand. She was more than a bit paranoid, she was downright afraid. Red John would affect them even in death, he knew without a doubt.

"Come in," Jane said, opening the door to allow her to enter. She stopped a few feet in, taking in the charming townhouse. The walls were white, bare, save for a few tasteful sconces in the hallway. She loved wood flooring, noting the lack of carpet. It was all lovely, but it was all very impersonal as well. No furniture, no photos, no art. He noticed her questioning face. "It's been awhile since I've ben furniture shopping."

"Clearly," she said with a raised eyebrow. "I figured you would have at least demanded your couch in the divorce." This was said with a little bit of bitterness ingrained in its intended humor. So that was how she saw his departure, then. A divorce. p

"Yeah, I suppose I deserved that. How is my couch fairing?"

She shrugged, choosing not to answer. She had no desire to tell him that she'd all but screamed at Agent Ellis for so much as thinking of sitting on the infamous couch.

He searched for another tactic. "How did you find me?"

"I am a detective you know," she said, a miniscule smile lighting her face.

"Cho folded," Jane added for her benefit.

"Faster than Bertram in a Poker game," Lisbon said wistfully, toeing her shoes off.

"Lisbon," he began, seriousness coating his voice. "There's something I need to tell you."

She smirked. "You followed me to the beach? Yeah, I already figured that out."

Then she saw the living room floor. Covered in manila folders, papers, all bearing a familiar woman. Erica Flynn. Teresa's eyes narrowed, turning back to Jane.

"She already found me. On the beach."

"And you didn't think to say anything?" Lisbon cried, throwing her arms up in defeat. "What, did she come bearing proclamations of her undying love for you too Jane? This is not happening! There's nothing she can give you, nothing, because Red John is dead. So tell me Jane, what could she have possibly wanted from you?"

"A conversation."

Her eyes widened at that. It was like she was stuck in that movie,_ Groundhog Day_, the day never changing, always playing on repeat. Same case, different suspect. Lorelei. Erica. Red John.

"And why does she want a conversation? She can have anybody she wants, what makes you so special Jane?" She demanded. The more she spoke the more she felt like a jealous teenager, mad at her friend because the boy she liked was in love with her friend. Not her. Never her. It never changed.

"I don't know, she wouldn't tell me. I got the feeling…she wanted something, but not necessarily from me. I'm going over the case to see if there was anything I missed before about her personality."

"I thought I'd be safe here, but I think I should go Jane," she said, no louder than a murmur. Safe was a joke. She wasn't safe anywhere.

"Stay," Jane said quickly, grabbing her arm with force to still her movements. When she turned to him, her eyes screamed staying would hurt more than fending for herself in a world full of criminals. He felt taken aback by the foreign expression on her face. "I'm sorry, Teresa. I shouldn't have left. I should have called. I didn't run away, I stayed here. I just needed to back off for awhile."

"But why? Why did you think you needed to back off?" Her question was desperate.

He sighed. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with her in an empty living room at one in the morning when she was already keyed up. Anything he said now would be wrong, and he could not risk Freudian slips with her.

He went with the safest answer, the easiest lie. "I needed to finish…things." His answer came quietly. "I sold the house. I…I had to tell them what I couldn't do for them, and that was hard, Teresa."

He'd had the opportunity to kill his nemesis. As the mad man cackled, hooked to his life-aiding machines in his mansion, Lisbon had lowered her gun, backed out of the room without a backward glance. She'd given him is chance to avenge his family. For all her laments on revenge, the sight of him had her handing the reigns to Jane.

It had been just her and him and Red John. There were no witnesses. He could have taken his revenge, and she would not have seen him a bit differently. They never told the team. Maybe the massive reversal of roles was what had effectively begun tearing them apart. She'd let her moral conscious go, and he'd been the cause of it.

"We never….talked about that, Jane. Are you mad that I gave your chance for your revenge? Is this my fault?"

He swallowed hard. "No, Teresa. I was upset that you abandoned your core principal, your beliefs, your good heart, for me. I can't have you do that for me. I had to know that I didn't ruin you. You're too good of a person to ruin."

She nodded her understanding. He viewed her now as the woman who would have literally let him get away with murder. And not think of it again. "I'm sorry, Jane. I don't even know why…I guess when I saw him, the real him, all I could think of was all the lives he ruined with what he did, and how he hurt you and Grace, wanted my head, got Wainwright killed, and turned you into a man obsessed with avenging his family for so long…I just…I didn't want him to get out alive, to buy his way in prison and live in luxury there. I cannot explain it Jane. I think I just wanted it over. And I thought you would take it."

"And the whole time, Teresa, I had your voice in my head telling me revenge would do nothing but turn me into a monster," he said, almost laughably.

"For what it's worth…I'm proud of you Jane."

"Thank you, Lisbon. For giving me the option to make my own decision. I'll never forget that."

She smiled, feeling it a kind of forgiveness for a lapse in judgment and morality. He revered her a kind of saint, and with one small act, she'd tainted his image of her. It would be awhile before it was fully repaired.

For now, though, it was enough.

"So…how about you tell me exactly every word Erica Flynn said…"

It was clear neither would sleep anyway.

XOX

It was well into morning, a bright, clear Saturday with the light streaming through the slits in the blinds that he woke with the pile of folders strewn across his lap, leaning against the hard white wall.

As he focused, he realized Lisbon wasn't in the living room, though she'd fallen asleep hours ago, too exhausted and not nearly as much of an insomniac as he. Her bag still remained where she left it to use as a rough pillow.

He stood, feeling his joints strain with the movement. He was not as young as he used to be, he thought morosely, wandering his town house for the petite agent. Not in the kitchen, the bathroom, or his office of a sort, full of the files he'd taken along the way. He came to a stop outside his bedroom, nudging the door.

The sight drew him in, and all he could do was stare. She must have given up on the hard floor, figured, possibly, that he had a guest room—or she just didn't care. The beauty before him lay tangled in the white sheets, dark hair splayed like a halo, casting a stark contrast. He relished that his pillow would smell like her strawberry shampoo for days.

He'd purchased the queen bed on a whim. He had not slept in an actual bed since Angela, but the bed was just too…too fitting to give up. It fit him, his style. He'd thought about a twin bed, but felt that was being silly. He did not regret his decision one bit now. She'd taken the side closest to the window, but faced him. It would be noted he was glad that he'd bought darker curtains for the room, if only to let her rest longer. Before he could rethink his current thought, he was lying on his back atop the covers, next to the beauty in his bed. She would be furious with him when she woke, but for now…he would just enjoy the peace.

XOX

"Uh, Mrs. Jane?"

The woman in the well tailored, exorbitantly priced dress nodded, briskly walking to the portly, bearded man.

"You asked for this?"

She smiled, charming. "Oh, thank you so much. It's a gift for my husband."

The man shrugged, not caring either way. He was not paid to care.

He wasn't paid to watch her walk out of the store either, but it was a nice view.

XOX

_You can't hide from the truth_

_Because the truth is all there is_


	4. Through The Looking Glass

**A/N: **the lyrics following throughout are still "The Truth" by Handsome Boy Modeling School. Enjoy ch. 4—I seriously, honestly, have no idea where I'm going with this story folks…Also, from the last chap. I've given you the reason they weren't getting along: I could actually somewhat see my theory being true, having Lisbon falter, and hand Jane the reigns for revenge—that it would be a major moral role reverse could be a daunting twist. Think writers, think!

**We're Painting The Roses Red**

_I know you better than you think I do_

_Don't worry dear; this is why I fell in love with you _

_The man in the looking glass_

_Is looking back at you at last_

She woke, confused by the foreign walls and lighting. She was not in her home, that much was clear. Her walls were an odd, dark beige she despised but had never quite gotten around to re-painting. Hell, she had not even gotten around to redecorating, she knew, having kept the former tenants art on the walls. Her mind was fuzzy, and she couldn't recall what exactly had woken her.

Oh. Her pillow was moving. That was what had awoken her from her deep sleep—the kind she had not had since she met Jane and become so embroiled in his vengeance.

Her moving pillow, in fact, happened to be her handsome, hapless consultant. She tensed.

_Well_, she thought, _wasn't this an interesting turn of events? _Only hours ago they'd somewhat apologized, each, for their misinterpreted actions, moral or otherwise. She remembered falling asleep on her duffel bag, an uncomfortable sleep at that while they looked for any clues as to why Erica Flynn decided to return to the U.S., and make her presence known.

She was not so high maintenance as most, but waking with a crick in her neck and a throbbing pain in her back would not make for a happy Teresa Lisbon. She wandered Jane's townhouse, assuming he might have a guest room. She only found the bed in the one room, and as tired as she was, could not have cared less where she dropped as long as it was comfortable. But now she was nervous. He was one to enjoy his space and his privacy, and she felt like she'd invaded that.

Citing Lorelei as a fluke, Jane had not spent a night by or with a woman in the decade plus she'd known him.

Lisbon did not want to dwell, but rather enjoy this small moment. Rare was it that he truly slept. And she could tell, having learned his tricks and faces that he was honestly out like a light.

She opted instead to memorize the details of his face, moving her head from his chest, to take in his minute expressions; her face was now no more than an inch or so from his—if he should wake, their gaze would be intimately level. The pure calm, un-rattled, peaceful—she was so afraid to move and ruin it, as she'd curled into him, seeking warmth in the night. His left arm draped delicately across her shoulders, nearly crushing her to him. Her hand on his stomach was enclosed within his right hand. Not letting her go.

Teresa had missed a vital aspect, one she didn't notice until she felt it missing. His left hand was bare. The ring that had so long circled his finger like a foreboding albatross was gone. _When had that happened? Why had he removed it? _

It was then that her gaze traversed it's way back up to his Adonis-like face.

And found he was staring back at her, eyes sleepily attempting to focus on her.

Her mind blanked and her eyes shuttered a bit. She made to instinctively pull back, but his grip only tightened, keeping her still. She barely breathed, and he did not speak.

He moved, resting his forehead to hers. She relaxed a bit.

"Hi," he said, a whisper in the silence.

She swallowed hard. "Hey."

It was unnerving her, remaining so immovable and intimate. She had not felt like this since Greg. And even that did not compare to the strangeness now.

"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards, Teresa."

She knit her brow in confusion at his strange words.

"It's from Through The Looking Glass," he added for her benefit. "Charlotte loved Alice In Wonderland," this said with a small, for the first time, guilt free smile. He recalled his delve into the psychedelic world of Belladonna, noting the fictional story crossing over into his mind; the rabbit, the tea, the garden, his daughter's beautiful image.

"Curiouser and curiouser, aren't you Jane," Lisbon added colorfully, biting her lip so as not to laugh. His answering grin was rather amused.

"Why Lisbon, look who's become so witty now."

"Yeah, well, that tends to happen when one spends all her days with a Mentalist who quotes poetry and waxes literature constantly."

"I would suppose so, my dear," he said, eliciting a warm smile from his bed mate, their foreheads lightly colliding in their laughter. It subsided quickly, though. The mood changed sufficiently in mere moments, turning serious and intimate once more.

She could see when he made his decision, and she was powerless to stop him.

It was nothing more than a slow, light, brush of his lips against hers, but the feeling sparked like a livewire, hot and new and electric. There was nothing friendly in the kiss. There was to be no mistaking his intention, she knew, as he searched her eyes for fear or rejection or something more.

Her lips curled lazily in the corners, nothing he saw screamed rejection, nothing of the sort within her emerald orbs. He couldn't say he was surprised. He'd known for a while what she felt. If her unconscious grip on his rumpled button down shirt was any indication, they were off to a rather solid start.

Jane could see her pupils dilate with her desire to continue. As he was sure, his revealed the same.

The loud knock on his door disturbed the long anticipated moment.

Spell not entirely broken, but curious instead, she asked, "Are you expecting someone?"

"No," he answered with a shake of his head. He stood, shaking the sleep from his cluttered mind and she followed him to the door.

Jane opened the door, revealing a teenager with a bored, agitated look in his eyes, as if Jane taking so long to answer the door was putting him out.

"Package for Mr. Jane?" He said with a heavy sigh. Lisbon looked on, amused. The teenager seemed to appreciate her a little more, roving over her body hungrily, Jane noticed with a dark glare at the boy.

"Do I sign something?" Jane asked, taking the parcel.

"Dude, do I look like a delivery boy? Some lady gave me a hundred bucks to bring this to a Mr. Jane, apartment 12," the boy replied rudely.

Lisbon tugged Jane's shirt in warning, as if to say _you'll catch more flies with honey_. "Could you possibly describe her, you'd really be doing us a huge favor," Lisbon queried with a shy smile and a flirty wink. The boy flushed, nervously raking a hand through his unruly hair.

"Uh, your age, probably…tall, really hot, but you're way hotter," he stuttered. Jane rolled his eyes. Lisbon smirked, a little too proudly. "Kind of strange hair, if you ask me, blonde but with like, red in it. Didn't look like it was hers if you know what I mean, bad dye job. My sister did something like that once, hair turned green when she went swimming."

"Focus," Jane ground out.

The kid held his hands up. "Look man, she was some chick in like a really expensive dress, that's all I got."

Jane frowned, it wasn't like he hadn't figured out it was Erica. "Thanks for your help," Lisbon gave the boy; he grinned meekly as the door was shut behind him.

Jane wandered into his kitchen, Lisbon on his heels, seating themselves at the kitchen counter and staring at the package as if it would blow up.

"You know it's from her," Lisbon said, stating the obvious. Jane nodded.

"What is she playing at, Lisbon? What could she want?" He mumbled, repeating the very question she'd demanded of him only last night.

"Well, you said she wanted a conversation. Let's see if she sent you one." Teresa nodded to the innocuous parcel before them.

He tore the brown paper, revealing an inconspicuous box, which he further unwrapped to find an old book. The spine was worn with age, the cover practically unable to be read.

"What is it Jane?" Teresa asked, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the book. He opened the cover, hoping to find a title. He blanched.

"Jane?" Lisbon said, seeing him visible pale.

"This…Teresa, it's a first edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland…" he trailed, fascinated at the prospect of what he held. She couldn't help but feel her heart sink at the awe he unknowingly allowed in his voice, whether he knew it or not. She knew what the 'gift' meant.

Control.

She carefully took the book from his hands, seeing a note lodged in a page. She flipped, gently, to the page, removing the note and reading quietly aloud:

_Oh, painting the roses red_

_And many a tear we shed_

_Because we know_

_They'll cease to grow_

_In fact, they'll soon be dead_

_And yet we go ahead_

_Painting the roses red…_

"Some conversation starter," Jane said smartly. Lisbon glared crossly at him.

"Jane, you—"

"Can't keep it? Obviously. Why send me, of all people, a twenty thousand dollar book?"

It was Teresa's turn to blanche. It was about what she made in a _year_, and this woman had gone and bought something so priceless for him.

She almost missed what he said, wound up with her own thoughts.

"…when I already have a copy, anyway?"

She looked at her best friend-turned partner-turned…whatever, with large owl eyes. He smiled, noting how bright her green eyes became.

He knew what she was thinking, and shrugged. "It's not always money one wins in poker games, my dear. And as I said, Charlotte loved Alice."

Okay, so that warmed her heart a bit. Until the next thought came over her.

"Jane, how would she know your daughter liked Alice? Or that, you even liked Alice to begin with?"

His equally thoughtful, confused expression worried her. "It's not like I ever even spoke of Charlotte too her, not even Angela. She knew I'd been married. And of course, you can easily 'google' me; my history is there for all to see. When she kissed me, before she ran, she knew I'd lost _someone_, but she didn't know who…or how many…"

Teresa's eyes flashed hurt. He realized he'd never told her Erica had kissed him, and it was one of his Freudian slips he'd been so afraid to reveal. They were already, and long had been, on rather shaky ground, given everything he'd put her through in the past two years as it was.

She took a step back, as if he'd actually pushed her, still clutching the book.

He caught his mistake.

He moved from the table to grasp her shoulders immediately, seeing the flight not fight expression cross both her face and body. She tried desperately to pull out of his grasp but he held on tightly, and she did not have to effort or energy to try.

"Let me go Jane," she said, looking down at her feet.

"No."

"Why didn't you tell me?" She whispered, stunned. "I _knew _she was a bad idea, I knew it, I could _feel _it, for Christ's sake! I ignored it because I knew how dedicated you were to your wife and I thought, it's not possible because he loves his wife, and he'll never love anybody again, not the way he loves her, and he could _never _betray her…but then Lorelei happened and I knew after that that you'd be so willing to give it away again, at _whatever the cost_, you said, and you meant it Jane, didn't you! And then, where did that leave me, your friend, the one person that never let you down? I mean, I'm loyal to a fault and I know it, I've been fired and suspended, and nearly killed because of it, and I've spent ten years being just as dedicated to you as you are to a dead woman, a _ghost_, Jane, and I knew, after Kristina and Erica and Lorelei, that I would have to kill someone to be considered good enough for you! Is that what I have to do? Do I have to become a murderer to be recognized by the Great Patrick Jane? I guess I'll be waiting a long time to be seen as anything other than a tool to be used by _you_! You'll never see me as anything more..."

As her tirade had continued, her volume had increased until she screamed so loudly the neighbor's dog barked in response, and she'd long dropped the precious book, and used her small fists to punch and slap and push her emotions into a frenzy upon him.

He deserved it. Every bit. And he took it all, not saying a word.

He'd kept her in the dark for years. About Erica, about her, about his feelings and his intentions. He could fall in love with murderess wretches, but not the good, beautiful, flawless saint of a woman before him. The one who had never left his side. The one who always believed in him. He was twisted.

She managed one arm free, and took her swing.

Her fist clipped his nose, and he staggered back in shock. It was not the first time the small, pixie of a woman had punched him, recalling when he'd lied about the empty test tube full of a deadly, incurable disease. She'd been emotional and irate then...but this was personal.

She wanted nothing more than to rewind back to the trivial kiss they'd shared. She wanted to rewind the years back and never let Erica Flynn join their investigation. She wanted to be fought for, for once, to know that what she felt wasn't one-sided, for all his touching and polite comments, she had no idea what he felt for her, if anything, and it was killing her.

The traitorous tears fell, and she did nothing to rid them. She leaned back against the wall, sliding down the cool surface until she hit the floor, eyes closing against the onslaught. She said the one thing sure to ruin them both:

"I can't do this, Patrick."

XOX

When Charlotte was four, she'd declared quite profusely that Alice in Wonderland was her favorite story, ever. Jane had laughed, loving the story just as much as she.

A bored girl, falling into a dream to escape her tiresome reality, chasing white rabbits, regaling the Mad Hatter at tea parties and singing about unbrithday's, playing croquet with flamingos and hedgehogs, and painting the white roses red, to appease the Queen of Hearts.

She'd loved singing along, "Off with their heads daddy, off with their heads!" which would inevitably drift back to the chords of, "Happy Unbirthday to me," before Angela would have fits about the song being lodged in her mind for weeks at a time. But he loved every moment with his little girl.

When he won the first edition, Angela had gone wide-eyed. She'd worried their daughter would ruin such a precious thing, but he'd waved her off. It was a book, he'd said plainly, and a book was meant to be read. Charlotte had been so captivated by the illustrations; she knew it was a precious thing, and treated it, as her four-year old mind could, as such.

She'd tried everything to be like Alice; she tried to catch the rabbits that scurried in their yard, held tea parties with her dolls, and even on a childish whim, and after a thorough scolding by Angela when she was caught literally red-handed, stolen her lipstick and colored the roses in their garden with the pretty red shade.

It was so comical that Angela had not even been able to scold their daughter with a straight face; instead, she joined her daughter's futile attempt to "paint" the delicate petals with her [very] expensive shade.

When he asked her later why she hadn't been nearly as upset as he figured she would be, after a good laugh when he'd seen the mess of caked red goo on the fine white roses, her response had caused him to smile with affection and delight.

"Memories like these, Patrick, are far more important that objects. Objects can be replaced. She cannot be."

The memory of his wife's words hit him like falling bricks.

He had spent more than ten long years treating Teresa Lisbon like an object. Used her like a tool, his means to an end that had ended.

As if she could be so easily replaced…

XOX

Cho made his way down the hall, itching to tell Jane of the information they'd received. He felt awful, not having filled the team in on where Jane was, or that they met regularly, but it was Jane's condition if he wanted him to stay in the Sacramento area…no one but Cho was to know.

So he kept the man's secret, in hopes that, for no other reason he'd stay for the Boss's sake. She didn't deserve to be left out of the loop. He'd confided in her, folding under her sad, penetrating gaze. She'd been out of it for too long, and too many times.

If Jane did not step it up and get over himself, she'd be gone.

He braced himself to knock on the door, as per usual, when he heard the yelling coming from inside. For a moment he thought someone was in distress, and then realized it was Lisbon's voice on the other side.

And he could make out every word she said.

He listened til the end, feeling like a heel for eavesdropping on such a clearly private moment. But the information he gathered stunned even the stoic man.

As angry as he was, as much as he wanted to interfere, he turned and left. He'd return to torment Jane later.

After all, hearing the resounding crunch, he figured Lisbon was handling her own well enough…

XOX

Erica admired her work from afar. They were quite easy to play off each other when her name arose. Their relationship was tender, delicate like a butterflies wing. One pull, and the butterfly would be no more.

Flying with one wing was rather hard.

Love, a one-sided love at that, was harder.

She'd taken his wife's identity to push him. It had worked, briefly. But she would have to try harder. A bump in the road was one thing, but a giant gaping hole was something well suited to her needs.

She'd have him soon enough.

She always got what she wanted.

XOX

_Because the truth is all there is…_


	5. In A Windowless Room

**A/N: **and now back to my story—a short, quick filler chapter sorry. I'm changing up the lyrics, so fair warning, it is no longer the song that's followed so far, ran out of lyrics—so they are now "Miracle" By Paramore, an apt song indeed…[also, after eagerly building up such anticipation for last weeks episode [cherry picked]—I was utterly disappointed. It was a pretty craptastic ending, I knew who did it the whole time, and I felt like the writers are trying to push Lisbon out of the storyline. The first 5 eps have been great! This was awful! I don't want to see more Lorelei, and the hunt to find her is exhausting and under-whelming, it frankly reminds me of Mulder searching for his long dead missing sister while Scully dutifully follows along. I was so put off that it uninspired me to write. But I will give due credit to Sunday's ep and say it was a lovely little Lisbon standalone. Sad that she was on her own, but I think she's realizing, at some point, he may actually leave her. Also, I am excited for Brett Stiles, he is somehow a fave character of mine.

**We're Painting The Roses Red**

_We've learned to run from_

_Anything uncomfortable_

_We've tied our pain below_

_And no one ever has to know_

They sat that way awhile.

Her staring into nothing; leaned tirelessly against the wall.

Him staring at her, doing nothing to staunch his bleeding nose, wondering how much of them he'd ruined with a sentence.

Her proclamation echoed about his mind cruelly; _I can't do this, Patrick._

She meant it this time. Unlike all the times before, he heard it resolute in her lilting voice. She'd had enough.

He could not blame her either.

As suddenly as she'd slid to the floor, across from him, she was standing. Leaving, too be sure, he thought with a dull ache. He looked away, unable to watch her leave him.

He knew how she must have felt every time he left her in that moment.

Jail. Vegas. More jail. His search for Lorelei. After Red John's slow death.

A thousand knives cutting into your heart. That's what it felt like.

He'd never be able to make this up to his lovely friend.

Too caught up, he nearly missed the hand held out to him. Unsmiling, dull, angry, but holding her hand out too him. He glanced up curiously.

"I can't look at that anymore."

Oh. His gushing nose. He realized his once pristine button down had spots of blood staining its pure whiteness. He took her hand, allowing her to pull him up, noting she clenched it harder than he was sure she intended, feeling the spark of connection settle in their bloodstreams.

She looked quickly away from his tortured face, and he led her to his bathroom. He sat unceremoniously on the sink counter, as she gathered necessary supplies as if she lived there. He smiled at the thought, and let it go just as swiftly.

She'd done this before. Her father's abuse and three brothers to mother about. He nearly slapped himself.

"It's not broken, I didn't punch you at the right angle," she said with a bit of clipped remorse. Not for punching him, but for _not_ breaking his nose, he thought with amusement.

"Well, feel free to finish the job, Lisbon…I clearly deserve it."

Her heart sunk more at the use of her surname. Back to this then, the staunch professionalism, the distance.

She smirked, but there was no lightness and no humor in it. "Haven't you hurt yourself enough? Maybe if you stopped asking for pain you'd stop receiving it."

He grimaced, not when she brought the cool cloth to his nose, but at her words.

"Maybe if you stopped assuming and allowed me an explanation, you'd stop hurting me and, by default, yourself," he replied glibly.

Her eyes flashed dangerously, daring him to push his luck just a bit more. She shoved the cloth into his hand, looking away with fists clenched.

"It's not assuming if I already know _Jane,_" she said, emphasizing his name as well. "It's not like lying is hard for you, we both know that."

Her tone was sad. Heartbroken. He did that.

"What am I lying about, Teresa?"

She looked in his eyes, reading him easily. He'd allowed her that much, the ability to let her read him with candor and respect. She hesitated.

"It's lying by omission Jane, you did it with Lorelei, you're doing it now with Erica. Tell me, that with either of those women, you felt absolutely nothing, not a stitch or so much as whisper of a feeling," she said outright, needing to hear the answer. Or see it. Her heart was no longer sinking. It was drowning. "You can't, can you?" she answered for him, awed.

"I can't lie, Teresa, not when it's this important. There was something in both that reminded me of something like love, and it's that feeling that follows you that you can't let go of. But you're wrong that what I felt was really, real, pure love for either. Because it was far from it. As you like to point out, Lorelei was the first woman I slept with in the better part of decade; no matter how I push it down, the connection is there because there is always a connection after that; do I wish it hadn't been with her? Everyday. As for Erica, her mind, her manipulation, her dark confidence was what drew me in—she is _me_—Teresa, long before I met you. It's like tangling with yourself, in a battle to the death. It's what she wants; to pull me apart, dissect me like a frog. You're in the way, in her mind. She wants you gone. Can't you see what she's doing?"

His face softened. She was captured by his words, and all she could do was hope they were the truth. But his words made sense, their relationship was fragile and easily picked apart by someone so cunning as she.

"There's no room for them in my heart, Teresa."

He dropped the bloodied towel in the sink, holding his hand out for hers this time.

She only hesitated a moment before entwining her fingers with his, relishing that electricity one more. Her smile was still small, but no longer held the darkness from before.

"I'm assuming then that you have a plan?"

He grinned widely, the likes of which she'd never seen.

"Oh, my dear, do I ever," he whispered, kissing her forehead, lingering longer than he should have. She pulled him to her, hugging him as he had hugged her in the past.

Like the kiss before, the hug was not meant to be a friendly show of affection.

He tangled his hand in her hair, clutching her too him for dear life. She would not like his plan, but she'd go through with it. She'd become a far better actress in his absence. It was going to suck, though, he ruminated.

He also noted his bathroom was the only room without a window, and knew if Lisbon were followed the night previous, it was because Erica had not been able to seek him out. And surely when she had found him, she'd watched their every move.

"Teresa," he whispered. She pulled back from his embrace, noting the sudden worry within.

"What is it?"

"She followed you home, and then here. She's watched us this whole time," He enlightened her, moving off the sink, and she cringed, glancing at the shower with sudden longing.

"And we're in the one room with no windows, aren't we?" she answered. He nodded. "So this is base camp then?"

Another nod.

"Only you would ever meet the female you, Jane." Her tone exasperated.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Attempting to thwart Erica Flynn is not exactly how I planned on spending my Saturday with you."

The comment had been off-handed, said without thought. She smiled, rather pleased, with this turn of events.

"Your bed was truly more comfortable," she added slyly, a soft sigh added for his benefit.

"Why Teresa Lisbon, I dare say you're trying to seduce me? I'm impressed."

She turned fully to him, leaning in, up on tip toes, as if to kiss him, but dodging last minute to whisper in his ear. "If I was trying, trust me, you would know."

His bright, beaming smile—the likes of which she had never seen in the decade plus they had known one another—was all the answer she knew she needed. Erica Flynn could try and tear them apart all she wanted. She wouldn't win.

"So, this plan…?"


End file.
